Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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YOU CAN’T WIN By Leo Dempsey, ’39 and Brands McMiUen, ’40 sheriffs arrived on the scene they found the place cleared with the exception of a tourist from Boston, who was nonchalantly leaning against the railing of the hotel piazza. This tourist, who was stopping in Texas on his way home after inspecting some recently discovered ancient ruins in New Mexico, was taken in charge by the officers and brought before a magistrate. “Did you do that thar shoot in’ ?” asked the magistrate. “It’s scarcely necessary,” replied the tourist, “for me to declare a negative to such a preposterous question.” “I ast you,” said the magistrate, “ef you done thet shootin'.” “I repeat my disavowal of the act,” replied the tourist, fixing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his nose and gazing at the magistrate very much as he would have inspected the ancient ruins. “Whar you frum?” demanded the magistrate, glaring over the top of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and sizing up the tourist. “I am from Boston,” declared the tourist. “Boh,” called the magistrate to one of the deputies, “you go out and git that co’t interp’eter.” Boh returned in about ten minutes with a weary-looking man in a blue shirt, and a pair of old brown overalls with one suspender. “Jim,” said His Honor, “this here pris’ner at the bar talks Boston. I guess it’s kind 0’ bronco dialeck. Kin you un’erstan’ th’ lingo?” “Sure,” responded the interpreter, “studied it at school.” “Then you go ahead and interp’et what th' critter says.” “Am I to understand,” said the tourist, fixing his gaze upon the interpreter, “that this ignoramus puri oses elucidating or even comprehending my words?” This was a bad break for the tourist. The interpreter gave him one glance sideways and bit off a chew of tobacco from his plug. “Now,” said the court, “blaze away and tell this here co’t whut yer know about thet shootin’!” “I arrived at the hotel,” explained the tourist, “physically fati- gued. Contemplating the imbibation of some restorative beverage, I repaired to the apartment devoted to the dispensing of refreshments. Immediately after my entrance, parties of whom I have no cognizance, began to fusillade in my rear. After this, they precipitately evacuated the apartment, where- upon the emissaries of the law, discovering me. as they supposed, flagrante delicto, apprehended me and arraigned me before this tribunal.” “Mr. Interp’eter,” said the court, “what does th’ forin’ varmint say?” The interpreter frowned wisely and chewed slowly, as if the im- portance of the case demanded a careful answer of the translation. “Th’ criminal at the bar,” he said, “in th’ devious and jaw-breakin’ lingo of his native diggin’s says he done thet shootin’, but says he was drunk, and asks th’ mercy of th’ co’t.” page Seventeen

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OOPS, MY DEAR By Marjorie Hawco, 40 Have any of you folks ever been so frightened that when you opened your mouth to talk no sound would come? Well, this happened to me a few weeks ago and it was all due to a nightmare in one of those modern conveniences, which some people call planes. I have another name for them! Well, I may as well start from the beginning. My dearest, closest friend (as I thought her to l e before that Sunday rushed me to the airport at Squantum in our old but safe “jaloppy.” I was rather downhearted and doubtful but my excited friend jumped around full of enthusiasm which she tried to transmit to me. We made arrange- ments to go up in fifteen minutes in an open cockpit and spent the intervening time in scrutinizing other passengers as they emerged from the planes. In general, everyone looked all right. I11 fact, some people seemed to be actually joking alxnit it. Just here and there we saw a white countenance in a frame of disheveled hair that reminded me of the wig of an old rag doll I used to play with. This last fact rather dampened our spirits, but we were still game. Eventually, we were summoned and led to our airplane. “To do or die —I reminded myself as I climbed tremulously into the cockpit and cuddled up in the back seat. My friend followed me and we were strapped in and made physically comfortable. In no time the “bird” started to roll and bump along the ground and I have to admit that in the past I’ve sat on more comfortable seats. As we started to rise, so did my insides. I gulped down two or three times and convinced myself that my imagination was working again. Riding along straight wasn’t so bad except that the fierce wind threat- ened to uproot my hair. I accidentally looked over the side of the ship and oooh!! My head began an Irish reel. I weakly sat back in the seat and thought of one of our most popular tunes, “Hold Tight.” The ride lasted only two minutes but it seemed like a lifetime to me. But what I have just related was nothing compared to the embarrassing incident to come. We were going down and I was nearly suffocated with fright. My head just hung limp and I closed my eyes so tight that they hurt. I had taken a tiny peek down and had seen the flying field coming up to meet us. My ear drums were bursting with the roar of the motor and the wind, my stomach was practicing for a trapeze act and my head felt as if it were floating in air like a balloon on the end of a string. How I ever got out of that “modern convenience”, I don’t know, but when I touched “terra firma”, I relaxed in relief. My heart slowly slid back into place while I gently and quietly faded out, my knees buckling from under me. = page Sixteen — ■ — —

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“This is infamous!” said the tourist excitedly. “I protest against the mendacious and villainous garbling of my words by this incompetent individual. I-----------” “Mr. Interp’ter,” cjucried the court, “what is th’ cuss a-sayin' ? “Th’ double-dyed homicide. continued the interpreter, “says that if th’ honoruble co’t’ll git ofF'n th’ bench he kin knock th’ head off’n th’ honor- uble shoulders before a jack-rabbit kin bat his ears.” The tourist opened his mouth and got as far as, “I strenuously pro- test against this-------” when the court climl ed over the bench with a whoop and made for him. The tourist gave one look and ran, and the deputies hilariously shot a few holes in the ceiling of the court room. As the judge and the tourist disappeared at full speed around a bend in the road, the interpreter shifted his plug to his other cheek and remarked to the boys who were complimenting his interpreting ability, “I’m right glad that tlier feller come along and give me some practice. I was gettin’ a little rusty on my Boston lingo.” WHAT 1 WILL REMEMBER Tony Mollica:— That famous turkey day affair! Jean Doig:— My Q. H. S. romance. (?) Edna Pagnani:— 312! Dich Grey:— How that big hole got in the boys’ locker room! Tom DeCaro:— I graduated! George Page:— Two years of basketball! Rowley Fallon:— The madhouse in the sleej cr when the football team came home from New York! Linda Monti:— Our lovely walks (to the Coddington) on rainy days. Roger Owens:— If I may pick two things I’d say the ears on one of the kids in my English class. ME:—What a perfect combination those chairs in the cafeteria and my stockings were! Charlie Henderson:— The day we made Hydrogen Sulfide in our chemistry class. Rowland Young :— The time I passed a Latin test. Dexter Gibbs:— Miss Sweeney. (Sigh!) Thelma Steir:— The elevator system we didn’t have! Gerry Turney :— The scramble in the cafeteria at third lunch. Bob Kelcourse:— Stopping people from going down the stairs when they should go up! Margie Moran:— My lovelife in high school! Agnes Barnes:— My trip to Norfolk State Prison, as a spectator, of course! Ed Mullen:— Breaking my 8:29 record; I got here at 8:15 one morning! Fred Dahl:— Almost not getting on the honor roll! Jennie Mucciarone, ’39 ■page Eighteen